“Yes, my lord. Please forgive and forget the errors of that dear brother; he has already done so much good to my countrymen of Bourbonnais. I pledge myself that he will, hereafter, be one of your best priests.”
And the bishop forgave him, after some very appropriate and paternal advice, admirably mixed with mercy and firmness.
It was then about three o’clock in the afternoon. We separated, to say our vespers and matins (prayers which took nearly an hour).
I had just finished reciting them in the garden, when I saw the Rev. Mr. Courjeault walking from the church towards me, but his steps were uncertain, as one distracted or half drunk. I was puzzled at the sight, for he was a strong teetotaler, and I knew he had no strong drink in the church. He advanced three or four steps, then retreated. At last, he came very near, but his face had such an expression of terror and sadness that he was hardly recognizable. He muttered something that I could not understand.
“Please repeat your sentence,” I said to him, “I did not understand you.”
He then put his hands on his face, and again muttered something. His voice was drowned in his tears and sobs. Supposing that he was coming to ask me again to pardon his past malice and calumnies against me, I felt an unspeakable compassion for him.
As there were a couple of seats near by, I said to him:
“My dear Mr. Courjeault, come and sit here with me; and do not think any more of what God Almighty has blotted out with the blood of His Son. I will never think any more of your momentary errors. You may look upon me as your most devoted friend.”
“Dear Mr. Chiniquy,” he answered, “I have to reveal to you another dark mystery of my miserable life. Since more than a year, I have lived with the beadle’s daughter as if she were my wife!
“She has just told me that she is to become a mother in a few days, and that I have to see to that, and give her $500. She threatens to denounce me publicly to the bishop and people if I do not support her and her offspring. Would it not be better for me to flee away, this night, and go back to France to live in my own family, and conceal my shame? Sometimes, I am even tempted to throw myself in the river, to put an end to my miserable and dishonored existence. Do you think that the bishop would forgive this new crime, if I threw myself at his feet and asked pardon? Would he give me some other place in his vast diocese, where my misfortunes and my sins are not known? Please tell me what to do.”